Even though there's always a bid in, and the cryingOf another proffered lot. Another other voice echoing itselfAs the gong of the inevitable "Going, going, gone"While someone crumples over somewhere and—

We gasp, as if we didn't comprehend it would endThis way nor what Dylan meant years agoWhen he played guitarAnd said we wouldn't need a weatherman.

Get it going on for our friends and family who never served, say you? I have plenty friends and family serving who hate this war (and our retard president) who are kind of sick of them, separated by degrees, yet not doing one goddamn thing to get them that sacrifice out of the sandbox.